Who Are You?
by Athers
Summary: Methos has a brush with the fates...


Who Are You

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul, not mine, never will be. The lyrics (sent to me by Paul; at the end of the story) are by Black Sabbath and also aren't mine.

This was written for the Halloween Lyric Wheel. It's not a songfic in the traditional sense: The rules of the lyric wheel are that you write a short story and it has to include at least one line from the lyrics you receive. So your story isn't necessarily inspired by the lyrics.

This was *supposed* to be a Caspian story. I wanted it to be a Caspian story. Hell - even the indolent Caspian clone who moved in without my permission sometime in March and who normally just sits beside my front door scaring away the door-to-door salesmen wanted it to be a Caspian story... Sorry Caspian fans - the Methos muse got between me and that idea, held a sword to my throat and told me to write...! whimpers

  
  
  


Who Are You?

It was a dark, dank night. The sort of night that gave rise to morbid poetry and alien abduction stories. The sort of night that should have been October 31st. It was perfect Halloween weather - a shame, really, that it was actually in early January. Methos turned the collar of his duster up around his neck in some attempt at preventing the slowly falling drizzle from working its way down his spine. It was an effort in vain, though - the rain was of the sort that is just heavy enough to get a person very damp. And Methos had been walking long enough to be *very* damp.

Not for the first time, he wondered why - in this age of motorised transport - he still persisted in walking places on nights like this. There were whole centuries in his past where he had been forced to march through drizzle such as this, yet now - when he had a choice about the matter, he was still doing it. **What kind of warped individual am I?** he wondered, squinting into the darkness. Just ahead of him, he thought he saw some movement. Squinting again, Methos was sure he had seen something. Puzzled that there was someone else abroad on this dank night, he started forward.

There was a footfall behind him. "What the..." He started to turn to see who or what was behind him, only to feel the kiss of something very solid against the back of his skull. As his consciousness faded, he found himself analytically wondering if the implement had been a baseball bat or a length of pipe.

***

Methos surged back to life to the realisation that, wherever he was, he was *not* in Kansas any more (so the saying went). In the first seconds of resurrection he realised he was naked; he realised he was bound at his wrists and ankles; he realised that his arms had been bound above his head, so that in fact, he was hanging by his wrist bindings. The three discoveries, coming so close together, send a wave of fear through his whole body. What was going on? Who had taken him captive? Why?

A high-pitched laugh cut through the darkness of his prison.

"Why do you think you are here, old one?"

The voice echoed oddly to the point where Methos could not pinpoint the speaker's location at all. The darkness surrounding him was so complete, he had his doubts about which way was up, never mind left, right, back or front.

"Yes, why do you think, old one?" asked a different voice.

"Yes, why, old one?" added a third voice.

Three people. All of whom had to be mortals - since he couldn't sense their presences. So why...

"You have me confused with someone else," he ventured, hating the crack and tremor in his voice. "I'm Adam Pierson...I..."

"LIE!" 

The word sounded harshly, with no echo at all, and Methos felt it as if it had been a physical slap.

"I know the secret," the first voice intoned.

"The secret within your mind," continued the second voice.

"You are the old one," finished the third. "And say you not different."

"I...don't know what you mean!"

"LIE!"

Another verbal slap sounded in the darkness, and this time Methos flinched.

"You thought it would be easy," the first voice said.

"From the very start you thought it would be easy," put in the second.

"But we have found you out. We have caught you up. And you are not so smart after all," concluded the third.

"Why am I here?" Methos asked again, his voice trembling just ever so slightly.

Another peal of high-pitched laughter sounded.

"Have you not guessed?" taunted the first voice.

"You should have guessed," insisted the second voice.

"You are ours," informed the third.

"You always were," added the first.

"No matter what you might have thought," continued the second.

"And it is finally time for your time to be over, old one."

Panic and adrenaline in equal measure surged through Methos' body as he felt the unmistakable sting of a metal blade at his neck.

"Who are you?" he asked, trying to shy away from the sharp edge.

"We are your beginning."

"We are your life."

"We are your end."

The blade's keen edge pressed deeper into his neck and he could feel a thin cut start to bleed. "Please! In the name of hell who are you?" he babbled. "I don't want to die! I want to live...I want to live."

"You have lived!" insisted the first voice.

"We have been lenient with you," asserted the second.

"And you have squandered the chances offered you," finished the third. "And our patience is at an end."

The blade sliced a little deeper into his tender neck "Please!" The scream died on Methos' lips as he felt the sword blade cut deeper into his throat, cutting his windpipe.

Inexorably, the blade pushed forward. Methos felt his life blood ooze out over the metal as it severed the jugular vein and the carotid artery.

On the blade moved, cutting further and further through his neck but at such a slow pace that he could feel it, millimetre by fragile millimetre.

And the worst part of it was, he still had no idea who his killers were. As they levered his head off by tiny degrees, draining away his life, all he could think of was 'Who are they?'

As his perceptions greyed and blurred, the last thing he heard were the three speakers.

"Clotho," the first voice announced.

"Lachesis," the second proclaimed.

"Atropos," the third concluded.

***

Methos surged back into life. Fear sang in his veins. Where was he? What had happened? Then the details of his last waking moment crashed into his consciousness and before he had even made a note of where he was, his hands flew to his neck. It was whole. Merciful Goddess, it was whole!

Satisfied the brush with The Fates had purely been a side affect of the blow to the head; Methos took the time to notice where he was. He was in his own bed...his own apartment. But...how? Then his questing fingers found a narrow ridge across his throat.

Panic brought him out of bed, across the room and into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Sure enough, there was a thin scar running from ear to ear across his throat.

"Old one," intoned Clotho.

"Take this as a warning," added Lachesis.

"Your very last warning," finished Atropos.

**NOTE**

_For those not obsessively acquainted with Greek Mythology, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos were the three Goddesses said to rule over a man's life as The Fates._

Who Are You - Black Sabbath

Yes I know the secret  
That's within your mind  
You think all the people  
Who worship you are blind  
You're just like Big Brother  
Giving us your trust  
And when you have played enough  
You'll just cast our souls  
Into the dust  
Into the dust  


You thought that it would be easy  
from the very start  
Now I've found you out  
I don't think you're so smart  
I only have one more question  
Before my time is through  
Please I beg you tell me  
In the name of hell  
Who are you?  
Who are you?


End file.
